“The Worry of Love”
without the slightest doubt
there is love in this world—
its pulse beneath the skin,
a current,
a surge.
what troubles me
is not its presence
but the mouth’s failure,
the hand’s hesitation,
the way language
falls short.
I want to say it
and the words fracture,
scatter like glass
on a tiled floor.
so I circle,
I gesture,
I underscore the silence—
hoping you will hear
what I cannot shape.
love is here,
undeniable,
but always slipping
between the lines,
like water
through open fingers.
.
